The Clock

I don’t know if I have
That much time left
There’s an urgency
Thumping on my breast
I don’t feel well
And they don’t know why
Their test inconclusive
Their guesses they belie
The truth that’s inevitable
“No one here get out alive”
So what do I do with myself
For what can I strive?
To peck and hen out words
To make another poem?
For if I don’t complete these thoughts
No one will ever know ’em.
My epic will fall apart
My legacy forgotten
No one can read my writing
These seeds will never be sewn.
Yet, in a panic
Poetics will fail
These themes ill conceived
Will just flop and flail
So what do I do
When money needs be made?
To care for my family
If I don’t see the next day.
Do I close up this book
And say goodbye to this dream?
Or do I take my last breath
Trying to say what I mean?